


When Helpers Fail, and Foes Invade

by LucyBrown45



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Southern Gothic, Twins, ambiguous death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 20:32:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11813679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucyBrown45/pseuds/LucyBrown45
Summary: The depression rumbles on and people adapt. Percival is a sheep cut loose from the heard and stumbles into the lives of the Barebone family.





	When Helpers Fail, and Foes Invade

**Author's Note:**

> When the Barebone family turned up on screen, it seemed fairly obvious to me that J K Rowling must be a fan of Carson McCullers and Flannery O'Connor. Here’s me attempting to channel that.

A young woman in a yellow dress is leaning heavily on a long handled broom. She’s come out from behind the shop counter and her fingertips trail behind her, resting on the wide, chipped top. She is frowning at a gaunt boy in a rough suit. He’s a pencil drawn line. Knuckled elbows against the oak lip, ankles crossed, he’s isosceles angled. Problem to be solved. 

“It’s time you were leaving.”

“But you’ve not said yes or no yet.”

“That’s because you know the answer.”

He huffs a breath out long and heavy through his mouth and stands up straight. 

Percival Graves looks up at the sound of the boy stepping from one foot to the other, convincing them to hold his body up. He coils the roughed brown leather belt he was inspecting around his palm and snaps the wrinkled elastic band back around it. He puts it on the shelf. 

The boy’s shoulders stoop and he shakes his arms, revving strength up in his spine to keep him standing straight. “I don’t ask for anything. Ever.”

“You ask.” She removes her delicate touch from the counter and as she puts her hand in the hidden pocket of her dress, her gaze wanders out the display window of the thrift store. Eyebrows twitched in worry. In pity. “All the time. Yesterday, you wanted a penny for liquorice. The day before you wanted ribbon-“

“Those weren’t for me, though.”

Percival half-watches her squint at the boy. She’s wavering, he can tell. He picks up a small tea plate decorated with pale pink flowers. Brushes the dust from it. He hasn’t yet found what he’s looking for. 

She takes a step towards the boy and lowers her voice, the broom waiting politely behind her, shy in her grip. “I can’t keep doing these things. I’m-” she takes her hand out of her pocket and scoops her hand in a loose sideways arch from her sternum until she’s pointing at the bare floorboards “-pregnant now.”

The boy looks down. His grin has tugged awkward. “I know,” he whispers. “I know.”

Percival puts the tea plate down. He wanders to a small bookshelf. 

“I’ll sweep the front for you.” The boy takes the broom from her and in long strides heads outside.

Percival flicks through an old copy of _Keats_ poetry. The cotton of the green hard back is gritty in his hands. It’s dark in the store and bright out. Through sun-misted vision, he watches the boy stumble over the head of the broom, the top of his boots revealed by too short trousers, knit socks crinkled down. Toe stepping out the way of pedestrians, gracelessly and apologetically. He’s clumsy. 

He puts the book down and weaves his way through brick-a-brack to the counter where the young lady is worrying at her bottom lip and counting coins. As he approaches she takes a pencil stub out from behind her ear and jots down a quick total. 

Percival keeps his voice low. The store, cluttered is museum-like. Dark, save for the display-lacking window, feels deliberately muted to pause time – stock still new, the height of fashion. “Do people ever donate magazines?”

“How d’ya mean?” She doesn’t look up.

“Ya know, jusslike, Life or National Geographic.” He coughs. Puts his hands in his back pockets. “Good Housekeeping.”

She drums her fingers and tilts her head back. She’s thinking. 

“Ya know, jusslike, does the beauty parlour donate old rags? Or sumthin’.”

“Not that I seen, sir. Not much worth in it I shouldn’t think.”

The boy clatters through door. “Miss Tina. Miss.” He looks behind him arm outstretched with the brush. “That fella. There’s a fella out there, he’s calling for you again.” 

She agitatedly strokes the seersucker primrose of her dress down and rolls her eyes before her fast feet in scuffed white plimsoles take her through the door.

The boy doesn’t move quick enough from the doorway and she rushes past him. He nearly falls, but recovers quickly, hand slid to the middle of the broom-handle. He grins at Percival, his cheek pressing into the worn curve of the broom-tip. “Whatcha looking for?”

Kid’s got gumption. Percival sighs. He’s going home soon anyways. “Magazines.”

The boy’s eyebrows rise before he sets the broom down in a small closet behind the counter. “We got magazines.” He takes the Miss Tina’s previous space.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yessir. Over at the church. People always leave by their old readers.”

Seeing the boy standing before him, nothing to prop against, Percival notices he’s wearing a black cross pin, the centre a burning orange. It’s attached loosely to the label of his blazer. The material has worn thin and is fighting a battle to take its weight. 

“Second Salemers?”

“Yessir. New Salem Philanthropic Society.”

Percival twist at the waist, just to avoid the boy’s dark eyes for a moment. Across the road, Miss Tina is leaning in at the counter of the dry good store. She’s buying a cup of coffee for an elderly man wearing bottle-bottom eyeglasses. She directs a man with a head of slicked chestnut curls, in a floured apron to settle him onto the outside bench in the shade of the awning. 

“You don’ gotta be saved to come visit.” The boy has stepped to the side, wanting Percival’s attention. His neck craned out of his thin greying collar. 

Percival looks at him. He finds himself squinting just like Miss Tina. Not sure what answer to give. “Sure. Sure.” The kid is unnerving. He looks like he’s been rattled thin. Pennies shook in a glass collecting jar rubbed raw, down to the bone. Percival nods. Weakly grasps the kid’s hand in a handshake façade. He avoids looking him in the face. He continues to nod as he walks away. Brown leather boots loud against the wood floorboards. He casts a low wave at the boy. A thank you, but no thank you. 

The day is hot and he’s got nothing better to do for the time being. He turns left and heads over to the pharmacy. Waiting it out with a _Coke a Cola_ sounds like a good plan. He’s considering even get a little something to eat if there’s something good on offer.

“I tol’ ya, Tina. There’s no need to fuss.”

“No sir. Thatssright. You and me and Mister Kowalski we’re jus’ gonna sit here and have a coffee. Perk us up a bit. No harm in a little rest.”

The man chuckles and as he walks by, Percival hears Miss Tina ask the gentleman how the grandchildren are. They’re growing he says. Growing tall and strong. 

The bell over the door jingles as Percival enters. He settles himself at the marble counter, hooks his heels over the rung of the high stool, stretching out his ankles inside his too warm boots, he points his toes. The soda jerk with an unfortunate spatter of acne across his jaw bops his head at him and brings him a glass of carbonated water. “The delivery of syrup never came this month.” He shrugs. “You know how it is.”

Percival grimaces down at the drink.

“No charge,” says the young man. “No charge, sir.” He bustles away, makes a show of collecting an ice-cream scoop. “Imma bring you a sundae. No charge, sir.” 

Percival catches sight of himself in the mirror behind the counter. There is sweat gathering at his temples and his face, while closely shaven is mottled with uneven patches of healing and new sunburn. A by-product of outside hours. He’s not wearing a tie, but his starched collar is neat and stiff, high n his throat. He lingers, vanity watching him back. There are no other customers. 

Sucking vanilla-sweet, he nearly chokes on his spoon when a hand grips his shoulder and uses it as leverage to pull a slim body onto the stool next to him. “Hey. You didn’t say if you were gonna come and visit.”

The boy’s voice is just a touch too loud in the quiet cool of the drugstore. Percival glares at him. Puts his spoon into the half-empty glass dish and grinds remaining peanut halves between his teeth. The boy is obvious. He calls, “Artie. Come on, come on over.” He curls his fingers into his open palm, hand stretched out at the soda jerk, but the young man ignores him. Pretends to tighten the bow of his apron. 

Clearly used to this rejection, his hand doesn’t come straight down to his lap, instead it traverses back to the boy by way of hovering over Percival’s ice-cream. “Are you gonna?” Percival’s not sure if he’s asking about the visit or if he is going to finish his ice-cream. He decided he doesn’t care. He leans sideways, opening the space between him and the boy so he can help himself to the dish. 

He shovels a heaped spoonful into mouth, as though Percival might change his mind. Or perhaps Artie might take it from him. Speaking with his mouth full, “I mean it.” He swallows. “Folks always ditch their magazines at the church. They think us and the mobile library’s the same.”

“Listen, kid-“

“It’s Constant.” He takes another bite. 

“What’s constant?”

Jabbing thin fingers into the centre of his own chest and letting out a sharp guffaw around cheeks stuffed with whipped cream. “My name,” says the boy. “My name’s Constant.”

Percival’s eyebrows furrow in concentration. His attention is caught by the boy’s pin again. Constant polishes off the ice-cream and neatly arranges the spoon on top of a napkin before folding his hands on the counter and smiling politely. “What’s yours?”

“Percival,” he says without meaning to really. He doesn’t want to get too comfortable. He’s come to town to complete his errand and he plans on not having any need to come back. He’s caught off guard and now it’s too late to introduce himself properly. 

Constant’s nose wrinkles. “That’s not a Bible name.”

Percival’s mouth falls open.

Holding his hands up, defensive, Constant clarifies quickly, “It’s not a bad thing. I’m just saying-“

“Constant.” Artie has slid in unnoticed. “You’ve sat here long enough.”

Constant looks at him with big eyes. 

“You need to leave or” Artie glances at Percival “if you plan on staying, you need to take your hat off.”

The preacher hat sits on his crown, the wide brim a shadow-halo. Reaching up Constant tugs it reluctantly from his head. His hair has been clipped uncomfortably short, the shape of his skull, the bones framing his waxy pale forehead stand out too far and without the hat, Percival’s eye is drawn to his long nose. The neat point of an English prince. 

“He’s always beating on me.” Constant brushes the thin material of the flat of the hat on his knee. He looks up at Percival and his mouth breaks over straight, white teeth. “He don’ come to church.”

He puts the hat on the counter and avoids Artie’s glower. “You go to church where you’re from?”

Percival’s Catholic. He’s not sure how well this information would go down with Constant. People never used to ask about religion. Nowadays they always do. Just to check. When they do, the only thing he can think about is that day. In the mud. Not in the mud, just cold and coughing up the earth. Shivering in his undershirt and praying. Praying nonsensical apologies, thinking if he said sorry enough times, Gloria Patri, that there would be mercy. Light, rising light in the cloying mire of that forsaken wood. Forgive my trespasses, I only borrow, I only forget. Please. Please, amen. 

They don’t have dedicated church. All those years travelling out to _Alabama_ each Sunday when begging letters to Father Francis to come see them went unanswered or praying on the hard ground of the barn for an extra hour if the weather had been bad.

“St Mary’s.”

Constant’s regent nose goes in the air at that. His eyelashes flutter. “Well. Bully for you.” He smoothes his index finger across the marble counter. “D’y’all sing?”

“You mean hymns?”

“Sure. You don’ sing Sacred Harp though, righ’?”

Percival doesn’t want to admit to Constant that he mostly just mouths the words. He doesn’t have a good voice and sometimes trying to read from the hymnbook and sing at the same time gets him bothered. He couldn’t bear the thought of having to sing the way the Second Salemers do. They spend all Sunday in church. The afternoon a dedicated singing session. That woman’s supposed daughter, leads them in song. “No.”

“It’s good. You get to shout and nobody can beat on you for it.”

He looks at the clock on the wall. He’s not sure the point of shape note singing is to get away with shouting. “Listen, kid. I’m gonna go now. Don’t let Artie make you pay for the sundae. He said it was on the house.” Percival smoothes his hair back with his hand and leaves swiftly. No looking back. He tries to open the door just a slither to keep the bell from ringing. 

Heading across the dirt road to the bank, temples already perspiring anew, a walking willow appears at his left side. Shuffling dust up, those clumsy feet leading their owner. Constant has is hat tugged firmly over his brow and has jogged ahead to walk backwards in his pathway. “Where we going, Mister Percival?”

Percival ignores him. They broke bread. He said goodbye. They walk a railroad handcart journey to the bank before Percival climbs the neo-classical steps and Constant hangs back. He stands at the bottom wringing the brim of his hat between picking fingers. Percival half-turns to look at him before shaking his head and heading on inside.

He approaches the rich, dark counter. The bank teller is a man about his age, but his hair is grey and he wears small spectacles that force his eyes haughty. Hound of hell, Percival is sure. “Mister Bailey sent a letter.”

The man doesn’t say anything, but stretches down with one arm under the counter. He keeps his badger eyes on Percival as though he expects him to vault over the cashier desk. There’s a rustling and the sound his hand patting down against the wood of what must be a small set of shelves. He levels himself, and picks up a pen. “There is no letter here.”

“He sent me a telegram.” Percival puts his hands on the desk. “Why would he send a telegram getting me to come all the way from Tishomingo County, if he hadn’t left a letter?”

“A length of the railroad is still being rebuilt after the storm. The post is slow these days.”

Percival breathes deeply in through his nose, swells his chest with the stale air. The man looks at him passively. Probably not much call for post. “Very well.” He taps his hand on the counter twice. Nods his head to assert himself and leaves. 

From the shadow of the door, looking out into the bright day, the kid. Constant. Is a boot-polish smudge on the petticoat white steps. His legs are long so with his feet on the step below the one he is perched on, his knees come up high. Percival sighs and decides that he’s just going to walk on by. Go about his day. He trots quickly down. 

Spotting him, Constant quickly gets to his feet. “You get what you need Mister Percival?”

Percival stops on the sidewalk, takes a deep breath. Turns to look at him. His pin glints. Constant’s mouth, devoid of colour under the press of his front teeth. Percival wants to reach out and turn the pale of his neck under his grip. Creeping little omen. Him waiting like that makes Percival think he knew that he wouldn’t be able to get anything from the bank. That nothing of importance has come through this no good town since before the depression. 

Constant rocks his ankle side to side off kilter from the pointed toe of his boot. Waiting for this man to tell him something. He waited outside the bank because it felt like God was speaking. He’s not meant to let this man out of his sight. God is going to tell him what to do. 

He runs his tongue over his teeth for the hundredth time in twenty minutes. He can’t stop it. The ice-cream’s the first good thing he’s had to eat all week. It’s a sin, that much pleasure, but he couldn’t not take. He had to get Mister Percival’s notice. 

Percival swallows, tasting the after bitter taste of fizzy water, nothing of the ice-cream. He looks up to the sky. He needs to buy a hat. He looks at the bank past Constant’s shoulder. He needs to find somewhere to stay for the night. Maybe longer, no predicting when the post will arrive. 

He looks across the street. Mr Kowalski and the old man are unapologetically watching them. Mr Kowalski looks concerned. He tucks a hand into the top of his apron. Percival faces Constant and catches his small pink tongue disappearing back into his mouth. Shamefacedly he tilts his head to the ground before half-heartedly grinning up at Percival. “You wanna come take tea at the church?”

He very much does not want to have tea at the church. The Second Salemers are a wailing group of false faith and Percival wants to steer clear of them. Their reputation stretches all the way to Percival’s hometown and well into the next state. 

Constant reaches into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulls out a creased up tract with smudged ink. “Here. We aint so bad.” 

Against his better judgement, Percival takes the paper. There’s no witch-hunting rhetoric printed, just the _Serenity Prayer_. Once, and then again after a curling, floral spacer. 

He looks at Constant from under cynical eyebrows. Out of the corner of his sight, he catches the old man kick his legs back and forth. Mr Kowalski takes his empty coffee cup from him, stands and turns his back on Percival and Constant under the pretence of stretching his knees, thinking about fetching another cupful. 

Thumbing his pin, Constant plays dumb to Percival’s wariness. “What’s a sup o’ tea gonna hurt? Coffee maybe? If you’re partial. And anyways you wan’ those magazines don’ ya?” He’s practiced at this. When mama wants something doing he reminds her of all the things he done good in the past. When Tina tries to get him away he lets his feet stumble. When women from the government come asking, he offers them something sweet. 

“Okay. Alright.” Percival wipes the sweat from the back of his neck under his tight shirt collar, with his handkerchief pulled from the pocket of his pants. “But I’ve got errands first.” He loosens the first buttons of his shirt and ties the handkerchief at his throat, shoves Constant’s tract into his pocket. He begins striding towards the thrift store. “A hat.” He looks over his shoulder at Constant “And someplace to stay.” He walks on, can hear Constant scuffle to keep up “Maybe a week or so.” Constant trips as he reaches Percival’s side. Percival pauses. Constant is taller than him by a couple of inches. “You should call me Mister Graves.”

Stepping into the grotto of the thrift store, Miss Tina’s brow furrows at them. Constant shrugs his shoulders and turns away into the gloom. Percival awkwardly, in three halting large steps, lumbers up to the counter. He wrings his hands, half straining to see where Constant has gone. He would much rather look for a hat himself, but he feels strange having left buying nothing and now coming back. He coughs. “I’m in need of a hat, miss.”

Her eyes are still cast in the direction of Constant, lurking in the back, aimlessly touching things. She sighs and meets Percival’s eyes. “It’s Porpentina. You can call me Tina.” She raises her voice slightly and angles her head so that it carries over the shelf of knick-knacks. “You seem to have attracted my black cat friend over there, so you may as well call me Tina.” Constants knocks into a shelf, rattling crockery. 

Constant’s large hands stop a tier of saucers rattling. He hears Mr Graves click his teeth at the noise and he pushes the shame down behind his heating sternum. He doesn’t care what Mr Graves thinks. He’s coming to the church. God had told him and he had listened. Mama would be proud. 

“It’s a bad season,” Tina says gesturing to a coatstand beside the broom cupboard. There’s a flatcap worm too soft hanging desperately to the hook and a warped straw hat with a centre crease. The sunhat has a wide brim and thinking of his neck, it’s the one Percival plumps for. 

Constant ambles over as he’s counting coins for Tina. “Good choice.”

Percival’s mouth quivers back, upward away from his teeth at him for the comment. He jams the hat low on his forehead and tips his chin at Tina. She smiles carefully at him, eyes flickering to Constant. The waif is often causing trouble. She’ll grant him that trouble often comes to him in equal measure, but she’s wary of this out-of-towner in neat suit and thrift store sunhat. 

“Do you know of any place I might be able to bed down at?”

“If Abe has no space for you, over at café, then you’ll have to rely on the kindness of strangers.”

Constant taps both hands down on the counter at this, excited hands, thins his mouth and skips towards the door. Percival copycats sedately, hands lingering as he turns to leave. Chooses to smoke-waive the strange look Tina is giving him and moves to catch up with Constant. 

Percival watches Constant ahead of him. He’s swinging his skinny arms, stiff charcoal marks. He’s humming something. He looks at Percival over hi shoulder, “Rise up, yonder Christian,” he sings in a squalling voice. Points of his canines, cheeky. “Away up yonder” his voice pitches. He turns to walk backwards, facing Percival, his right elbow cants out before coming in close to his body, keeping four-time with his forearm. “Oh, yes, my Lord, for I don’t care to stay here long!”

Percival recognises it as a _Sacred Harp_ song. Too upbeat and sounding lost without a chorus of voice behind it. He puts his hands in his pockets, continuing to walk. He’s happy to follow Constant to Abe’s. Seems eager to lead. He’s hoping Constant has a rapport with the man, maybe he’ll be able to mention Miss Tina. Get cheap rates. 

“Abe. Abe, man.” Constant grins, teeth white in a cardboard box reception area, swinging from the corner café. Constant is ringing the small hand bell provided with the vigour of an over-excited puppy. Constant has brought Percival to the second largest building in the town. Abe’s Café with a chalk sign proudly declaring grits and beer available, but Credence has dragged him around the back to a small tin roofed annex. 

Abe is a huge man. He’s the tallest man Percival has ever seen. He’s got smart eyes that are clearly un-amused by Constant’s antics. Percival should have predicted from Constant’s interaction with Artie how this was going to go. He sighs. 

“Put the bell down, Constant.”

Constant clangs the thing loudly down on to the desk and manages to trip as he steps back. He puts his flailing arms to good use, gripping Percival by the collar and hauling him up to Abe. The boy is stronger than he looks. 

“I could hear you coming. Making all that racket that you do.” Abe sniffs and smoothes his hands over a registry book out of sight. “Who’s your friend?”

Constant’s face alights with the glory of God. Still holding Percival’s collar he tugs at it, fists thumbing below Percival’s clavicle. “This is Mister Graves.’

For the first time, Abe seems to take in Percival’s appearance. His dark suit made from thin twill. It cost Percival a pretty penny. He’s worn it to two bank visits, one wedding, two funerals. Oh, and baby Mae’s Christening. That summer, Father Benedict had taken over Father Francis’s duties. He’d been fervent about the church and it’s adaptability to what he called normal folks. Percival objected to being called normal folk, because what that meant was that the church considered them poor.   
Percival insisted on still wearing his suit to every service despite the newly lax rules, but a lot of their neighbours opted to keep their best for best if the father said it was okay. Turning out to church in gingham and denim. The Graves family looked odd in their sombre black. 

Percival notices that Abe notices the pinprick blood spatter on the fold of his shirt cuffs. Abe makes no comment. His eyebrows do not rise at the out of place sunhat that Percival has dragged from his sweaty brow. “12 dollars a week, ya know.” He rolls his shoulders back, clearly making his mind up about something he may have unearthed about Percival. “It’s a little pricey, I know that much. But you get your breakfast too. We wouldn’t have you go hungry.”

Percival scrunches his hat in his hands. Looks at Constant’s hat still on his head. The kid has no manners. He’s not deliberating whether the price is too much. He already knows it is. Without that letter from Mr Bailey he has nothing. Abe seems to think he might be battering. “You get a beer in the afternoon too. Make you comfortable, like.”

Percival nods his head, thinking about where he’s going to get 12 dollars from.

”Alright then. Just sign here and I’ll take five dollars now, and I’ll take two more just to make sure you come back and that.”

Percival takes the money from his pocket, fingers brushing against the Second Salemers tract. 

Abe tells Percival he’ll get the room ready for him and that he should come back in an hour or two. He’d ducked his head at Constant and suggested the boy show him around town. Constant had laughed too loudly and said, “He’s seen it, man.” To which Abe had tried to cuff Constant’s ear, but the boy was quick, used to sidestepping and away.

“How did ya get here?”

Out in the street, Constant has attached his hand to Percival’s elbow. Like a young maid. 

“What do you mean?’’

“You’ve got no luggage.” He wrinkles I nose, “Did ya walk here?”

“No.” Percival huffs a laugh and pats Constant’s curled fingers. “No, I did not walk from Toshimingo County.”

“They’re still repairing some of the railroad track.”

“Hmhmm. I know. I found out when I got stopped at Carthage. A kindly gentleman drove me to rest of the way.”

“What gentleman? There’s no gentleman here.” Constant laughs. His laugh is a high derisive peel that sounds spiteful and full of the judgement of Solomon. The sound of Constant perturbs him greatly. His left eye pinches, the side of his mouth quirking awkwardly. 

“He wasn’t stopping. He drove right on.”

Constant clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Sounds like a gangster to me.”

Percival makes an undignified sound in the back of his throat, shuttling forward, startled out of him. “What?”

“A gangster. Bad eggs who drive on though small towns to escape the cops.”

Percival looks at Constant out of the corner of his eyes. He can’t tell if the boy is joking or not. “Oh sure, a gangster. No doubt. He had a trilby hat,” Percival lies.

“See. You oughtta be careful. You’ll get in trouble getting into cars with strange men.” Constant’s tongue tip curls towards his procheilon before squealing giggles.

Percival’s ears can’t stand that noise. He half smiles in bemusement and allows Constant to shake his arm before he dances away ten paces ahead. “We’re gaining ground. Glory Hallelujah.” Constant’s singing voice is a lot like his laugh. It grates out in a high-pitched plea that doesn’t suit his face or his speaking voice. “The dead’s alive and the lost is found. Gory Hallelujah!”

The church refuses to be ignored. Sat a quarter mile behind the little row of conveniences, it’s white timber boards gleam in the heat. As they get closer, Percival can see that birds have roosted in the eaves of the outer nave and that there is cartwheel dirt spilt over hackneyed crawlspace slats. 

Constant sharpsteps through the open door, but Percival hangs back. Removes his hat and looks up the spire. There are tiles missing and the weather vain is cocked. Constant’s head appears again and he waves a hand at Percival. 

He is met by a small woman with pallid brown hair. Her long heavy cotton dress and thick tight-knit wool housecoat betray how slight she must be to wear such garb in the heat. “Mister Graves.” She extends a hand towards him. Her skin is rough against his. 

“My son mentioned you were paying a visit.” She speaks with a formality that pencil scratches a story that he had written an invite request ahead moons ago and has arrived as expected, as anticipated, in the flesh a welcome guest. 

He folds his hands behind his back and looks at the ground. A shadow shimmer from the gallery balcony fickers his attention, but he focuses on the preacher. She has Constant’s shoulder gripped tightly in her hand. Much shorter than him, her arm is forced upward beyond a comfortable height, but Constant seemingly refuses to lean down to her. Catching sight of two cautiously still young girls in a doorway at one end of the transept, Percival thinks, perhaps he would be punished more for bad posture.

The preacher calls out to them without turning. “Set about tea for Mister Graves, girls. Set about.” She speaks through the dry skin of her lips, mouth barely moving. They flutter, grey tunics rustling, into the butter light of the kitchen. 

He feels he cannot ask her name. In the eerie sanctuary of the church he cannot shatter the illusion she has created. He is child returning home. He may have made his fortune, but he is not married. He has disappointed her. No lady wife to accompany him and to help with tea. 

A bird’s wing-beat reflection crosses the light from the entry. He flinches. Rickety pews have been moved, propped up against the walls to clear the aisles. The brief shutter of the main source of light in the cavernous nave, forces his eyelids to stutter, heart-thump catching. 

She ignores his indiscretion. “Come sit down, Mister Graves.”

He follows her to a long dining table angled in the corner of the room. There are two tall wooden candlesticks sat at one end, clearly its costume for playing alter at the appropriate time. He sits at an old school chair and the preacher and Constant join him. 

They sit in silence, Constant drumming his fingertips on the table. It makes Percival nervous, but the preacher has her eyes closed. The girls bring over a red coffee pot that has spent too long on the stove and beige cups and saucers. They too settle into chairs and the one with a birthmark under the jut of her cheekbone plays mother for everyone, hot steam rising as she pours. Translucent in the light. Made too weak. 

The preacher takes a withering sip before asking, “What” her voice moulds over the double-u and gottlestops at the tee “are we going to do about the unemployed” she puts her cup down and hisses, “situation, Mister Graves?”

He looks down at himself. His suit is pressed, although now a little dusty and despite the heat, the handkerchief still appears tidy. Without the sunhat he could pass for a rich man. Oil man, maybe. He’s not sure how to tell them. He’s not sure what he is doing inside the church. He looks at Constant who is gnawing at his bottom lip. He still has his hat on. What has this grey smoke spectre brought him into. 

He pats his hands onto his knees. He has not yet drunk his coffee. It is too hot to sip hot water. He glances out the door again. A girl in a blue dress and a woman are hovering around a beat up wagon. The lady is pointing sharply at the ground and the girl clambers up to sat inside the wagon and put her fist in her mouth. 

He meets the preacher’s eyes. “I believe, m’am.” He clears his throat. “That is all a matter of the seat at the table you have been set.”

These are not his words. He heard a grainy politician on the wireless and has decided that in this theatre, this is the role he will play. He does not remember much more of the speech. “A matter of plate you are served.” Or the plate you are willing to fight for. 

The preacher nods and Constant slurps out of his cup. He’s holding it in both hands, only his index fingers circling the rim, the others spread like spider legs outwards. “I believe,” says the preacher “that is a matter of God’s will.”

Percival slowly inclines his head towards her. That too, he thinks. That too. He is too tired to argue over whether his plate has cornbread on it or not. He feels as though he has already seen too many meagre meals, too many hell-hot days and too many back-arched, bone-tired people. He is not long for this world, he is sure. 

The preacher opens her eyes and turns to face the tallest, possibly the eldest girl, who stands up, ducks her head and rushes to the kitchen. She returns with a lopsided cake on a large tea-plate. The plate is chipped in several spots around the edge and Percival doesn’t want to eat. Persephone before the pomegranate. He knows it’s _War Cake_. Frothy with baking soda and filmy from the shortening. They truly do believe him to be a rich man, providing desert. He is richer than they are surely, but not a rich man. 

Shakily, the girl cuts a slice for him with a thin butter knife. She sits down and does not serve anyone else. Her sister doesn’t look at her. Constant cranes his neck to look out the door, the woman has helped the child from the wagon. He grins at Mr Graves. 

He has brought a good man to his Ma. This man will help them he is sure of it. God told him so and now Ma has welcomed him with cake. Today is a good day. She might even treat him with cake if he’s lucky. So long as ol’ cabbage head and the crank stay outside. 

Constant quickly scans the gallery. The space between the spindle balustrades is still. It would not do to have any trouble be caused now. He crosses his middle finger over his index on both hands and pushes them tight between his thighs. Mr Graves is looking at him and Constant grins, best he can. He won’t lie and say it doesn’t hurt when Mr Graves’s mouth barely twists. His stomach nearly rumbles, but he pries his wrists apart and shifts in his seat so that he can push the meat of his palms into his tummy. 

Percival lifts a fork, attempting to be cordial and briefly touches it to the side of the cake plate. The girl with the knife, more acutely aware of social graces being broken than anyone else at the table, seems relieved at the bare hint and cuts cake for everyone else. The preacher’s eyes thin at the side of her head, but relax when Constant bites his bottom lip. He will not eat. 

Stupid Angeline. Dumb girl. Constant could scream at her. Could, but won’t. She is not as dumb as the boy. And in any case, Mr Graves told her to. Constant nearly thinks that bringing Mr Graves was a bad idea, but is reminded that cake was never an option before Mr Graves got here. He uncrosses his fingers and pinches the flesh on the inside of his thigh. He blinks, hoping God will hear his prayer for forgiveness. He forgot the ice-cream. 

Percival forces down several swift bites of cake. Supping coffee quickly after. It’s awful stuff. This charade is quickly draining him. The Second Salemers somehow managed to gather a congregation big and generous to stay open year after year, collecting orphans at opportune and presumably inopportune moments. Money enough to feed mouths. Percival thought he might find inspiration on how to make twelve dollars fast. Rich in good deeds, he supposes is what they have. 

He can’t stand the quiet scrape of cutlery and chewing of cake. Constant plays up to the show. “Mister Graves came to town by motorcar.” He leans his elbows on the table, able to shuffle his plate to the side, hidden, as though too excited to hear the gospel form Mr Graves’s mouth. 

Percival clears his throat. Eyes darting, they linger on Constant’s pin, before observing his grin. Percival’s not sure how this devil child came to be the monkey on his back. “Well.” He remembers the politician on the wireless. The voice that sounded so sure even in the face of their nation’s starvation. “That I did. A gentleman was kind enough to escort me.” His puffed chest seems silly. He can’t imagine lingering at the church for much longer.   
Constant knew Mr Graves was worth it. Knew that God had guided him right. To make his mama happy. He’d do anything. Anything to make her happy. He’s not daft. Mr Graves is not a rich man, but he is richer than they. And he has something. God has not told Constant what yet, but he has something that Constant wants. That God needs. 

The preacher nearly smiles. “Surely, the most comfortable way to travel.”

Percival considers the elderly farmer who let him sit in the back of his truck. The farmer’s dog sat up front and Percival had to make sure the stacks of eggs he had piled up didn’t topple on the break-neck, rubble road journey. “Yes.”

Angeline murmurs, “I have never been in a motorcar. Is it much like being towed in the wagon?”

Constant breathes sharply in through his nose, nearly reaches out to give her a swift tap to the back of the hand, but Mr Graves says, “Why, I suppose it is somewhat.” He smiles gently at her and she blushes. Foolish child. 

Cross and hungry, Constant helps himself to the last of the coffee. Making his peace with the possibility of punishment later. The preacher says, “Our children live a simple life.” 

Percival nods. Nothin’ wrong with that, he figures. The day is dwindling and he feels the need to return to Abe’s. He pats the table. “I have lodgings to set to rights.” He stands to leave. He feels at a loose end, his fingertips stay on the table, feeling the dust there. 

The preacher looks at him with hard eyes and leans forward to grasp his hand. “It’s Pastor Barebone,” she says. “You must come and see us again,” she says. As though feeling the world in a permanent winter, she huddles her stiff blazer to her as she fold her arms. She angles her head and without waiting for Percival to say anything, she taps small steps around the table and ducks out a small door adjacent to the edge of the chancel. 

Constant creeps to his side, head leading him past Percival, able to whisper to him, “I’ll get those magazines for ya.”

In the kitchen, there is the sound of a glass breaking. Constant knows who that is and his back is straight immediately, werewolf aware of the moon. He runs through the door and slams it behind him, not caring of Mr Graves bemused staring. Only caring that Ma doesn’t catch hide or hair.

“Quiet,” he hisses. “Jus’ be quiet.” He stomps his foot and turns his head to the side, angry air held between his sharp teeth. He looks down at the boy on the floor trying to carefully collect the large fragments of a milk bottle in his bare hands. “Why d’ya always make a noise like this? Why you gotta be like this, huh? She’s gonna beat ya. It’s lucky I ran and closed the door. You’re lucky for me. Lucky!” He points his index finger at the boy before swiftly kneeling and gripping the boy by the short hair at the back of his head. “I’m gonna open the door and see to our guest. Get the broom. Stand on your silly feet and get the broom.” He stands and turns and as he takes the doorknob takes one last sharp look at the quivering boy. “Don’t get the girls in trouble.”

Mr Graves has wandered from where Constant left him dawdling by the table. He’s got a hand on the doorframe and is watching the woman heft a small child up onto her hip. The babe is bare from the waist up and is scrubbing at his face with a fist as though he had been crying. Percival was surprised that the girls had left the tea things out and had moved past him to sit in the wagon with the girl who has since stopped sucking on her fingers. They watch passively as the woman awkwardly wrangles the child. 

Constant keeps his eyes on him as strides quickly, but measurably over to a heavy oak chest tucked into the bottom of a walk-in closet that has lost its door. The shelves above it keep safe a collection of Shape-Note books, candles, matches. He opens the chest, eyes flitting back to Mr Graves, not wanting to let him get away. He rummages through old pencil stubs, a spare bed-sheet, he gathers up a battered but substantial collection of _National Geographic_ left by Mr Palmer after he lost his sight. There’s some scraggy _Strange Tales_ , flashing _Modern Screens_ and even a coveted _American Woman_ or two. He looks over his shoulder at Mr Graves as he arranges them in his hands. Hurriedly tamping the bottom edges on his bent knee. The toe of his boot nudges a broken carpet beat from under the chest. He kicks it back under as he stands and scuttles over to Mr Graves. 

He angles his head, getting Mr Graves’s attention. “Got ‘em. They’re good.”  
He steps from one foot to the other as Mr Graves slowly turns to face him. 

“Thank you, Constant. That’s very kind of you.”

He takes the bundle from the boy and hugs them close to his chest. 

“You’ll come around again then?”

\---

Percival’s first thought upon waking at dawn is that he has to round up twelve dollars without causing suspicion or alarm in this mouse-hole town. He had hurried into bed early last night. The sun was still tinker-peeking allowing an extra song on the radio for some, five more minutes playing cowboys for little ones. He had remembered to close the curtains and checking his wristwatch on the bedside table is rising later than he usually would. He hurries up and gets down on his knees and rolls back the heavy rug. He pulls up his suit pants, which he had left overnight under the weight of the rug in an attempt to iron them out somewhat.

Abe is as good as his word and serves a hearty breakfast of toast and eggs and oatmeal too. He pauses at Percival’s table, like he wants to linger and chat. There’s a family portrait in a frame behind the bar, but Abe is alone. Percival does not want to talk about Abe’s absent family, but he grabs his wrist. Abe is a man who has always been the tallest and strongest in any room, he is not startled. He acquiesces Percival’s widened eyes and head tilt to the seat opposite. 

Percival points his spoon at his bowl. “This is a good breakfast, Abe. Thank you.” 

Abe hums. A deep rumbling emanating from his chest. He folds his arms. 

Percival lifts his chin, eyes still cast on Abe. “That your family?”

“Oh, sure. For sure.”

Percival has misjudged Abe. Abe is not a man for talking. Abe has the corner of his blue collar pinched between thumb and forefinger, pinky brushing the edge of his bowtie. He is sternly observing the shallow of Percival’s clavicle revealed by him leaving his top button undone. Mr Graves’s disguise is slipping. 

“Listen, Abe.” Percival’s lips crook over his teeth, toast crumbs in the corner of his self-deprecation. “I didn’t think I was staying long.” He takes his handkerchief from his pocket. Idling. Swallows. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a pair of breeches, a man could borrow?”

They stare at each other for a beat. Percival thinks he must tighten the ribbon of his mask. “Something casual, like. It’s so hot out. Something linen, maybe? I’ve been over to Miss Tina’s. Twice, actually. She’s all suits and no sense of current trends.” Rambling, voice river canoeing.

“It’s a thrift store, Mister Graves.”

“Of course. I mean, of course. But you can understand my predicament, can’t you?”

Abe glances at the counter. A young man, red in the face, behind it is looking in the direction of the doorway. Percival follows his line of sight and catches the rim of a black preacher’s hat disappearing out into the street. He manages not to roll his eyes. 

“I’ve got some slacks I can lend you, Mister Graves.” Abe sighs. “I’ll get the boy to bring them up to your room.”

He coughs. Accidently adopts an accent, hoity-toity, “That. Is most kind of you.” He coughs again to hide his surprise and embarrassment at the unfamiliar voice. Quickly eats up his oatmeal. 

Up in his room, Percival takes the sheet of thin, floral wallpaper lining the top drawer of the chest. He lays it out on the bed. He ties his grubby handkerchief around his neck. He folds his pants carefully and places them on the wallpaper. He takes his blazer from the coat rack and brushes it down with his hands. He folds that too and neatly packages the lot up. 

He sits on the bed in his shirt and socks awaiting the knock at the door. Sweating in the heat. The day outside is already hazy. There’s no trees lining the street. There’s no trees for miles. Just stark dust. He misses the trees. Anxiously, he folds the cuffs if his shirt over twice. To ward of the heat. To hide the stains Abe has spotted. 

When it comes, he opens the door just a slither and rebuffs the boy’s offer of a bowl of hot water, taking the pants through the small opening. He hurriedly pulls them on, grabs the sunhat and tucks his package under his arm and sets off down the stairs.

Across the street from Abe’s, Constant’s sits watch on the porch of the crossroads store. He watches Percival from under the wide brim of his hat. Rubs his hands together. Percival thinks about just plain ignoring him. Something pulls at him. Manners probably. He changes direction and stalks over to the boy. 

Constant does not stand as he approaches. He looks down at the boy and the boy looks up, squinting into the light behind Percival’s shoulder. “Kid. I’ve got things to do today.”

“Yessir.”

“You can’t be following me about.”

“No sir.”

Percival breathes in deeply through his nose and puts one hand on his hip before swinging it, gathering invisible wheat and deciding to walk away. As he goes, he still glances over his shoulder at the boy who is staring impassively at him. Child is an odd duck. He shakes his head. Second Salemers. When he was younger, members of his church would threaten children with being sent away to the shack out here in Pine County, starve under God’s wrath in deadair Mississippi if they couldn’t behave properly. 

Constant’s not wearing his pin, he thinks as he steps into the pawnbrokers. There is no bell over the door to interrupt his thoughts. Maybe, he thinks, Constant doesn’t wear it everyday. Just the days he’s got tracts in his pockets. As he steps up to the empty counter, he thinks, maybe, Constant takes the pin off at night before hanging his blazer up. Left it on the dresser this morning. 

“Hello,” he calls out. Maybe, the material wore through and Constant took the pin off to darn his lapel over. Percival squints. He can’t envisage any sign of a recent patch-job. He puts his package down on the counter top and turns to look around the small space. A cuckoo clock ticks. 

There’s a model carousel on a large oak table underneath the window. There are shelves lining the walls with empty jewellery boxes, open like oysters and pastel Easter boxes overflowing with tissue paper, ready to be repurposed. The carousel is an ornate eyesore. He’d blinkered past in on his way in. 

Percival approaches it cautiously. The miniature horses have real horsehair he discovers as he runs his fingers through it. It’s grainy with age. He presses the pad of his forefinger along a golden scallop dancing from the circus red roof. He leans in, pressing too hard. The carousel moves an eighth of an inch and tinkers tinny notes. He quickly takes his hand away from it. It’s a monstrosity. 

He puts his hands on the hips and looks towards the counter. Nobody has appeared. The clock ticks. The carousel mechanism whines. Constant is probably the type of kid to lose the pin. His ma might have thrown a fit over that. Maybe that’s why he’s quiet.

That’s all the Second Salemers were. Just a bedbug apparition. A smear of dead wood. Lurking somewhere across the state. When people got hungry they started whispering that maybe the heathens had been the blessed after all. Percival’s not sure he believes in a God that would cut it like that. He puts his sunhat down next to his package. 

A woman pads out from the back room. Percival attempts to smile at her. Her chin slopes from her earlobes, giving her a look of perpetual mourning. Her knarl-knuckled hands flit over the yellowing wallpaper and tippers it open. With a swift grace she flourishes his suit pants, gripping them by the waistband, a strong whip of the material to assess their quality. She flattens them on the counter and turns out the pockets. She unfurls her ice thin fist, revealing the crumpled tract of the Second Salemers.

Percival folds his arms and tries to avoid looking directly at her, but she waits until their eyes. Hers are an undulating hazel that take him by surprise. She crushes the tract in her hand and drags her hand as though now too heavy for her arm across the counter and disposes of the paper in the basket beneath the counter. 

“I’ll give you twelve dollars.”

He stares at her. He puts his hands on his hips. “Okay.”

She wraps her knuckles on the counter and putters to the cash register. She pulls the lever to open the drawer, but pauses to look at him before nodding her head down at the suit. Percival quickly reaches out and begins refolding the garments. The jagged nail of his forefinger catches on the thread of an unravelling button. He twists it around, knowing the woman is watching. 

She won’t be able to sell them. He owes her a debt now. The pawnbrokers’ code. Benevolence at a cost. His mirage is broken, left in borrowed pants and a cheap sunhat while he’s waiting on fortune to bless him. Her trembling hand presses tatty bills into his. “Where are ya from, son?”

“Tishomingo.”

“Long way to come.”

Her voice emanates rumbling from her throat, like the first wheel rotation of a steam train. He has gained a hopeless comfort in the bond he now shares with the woman privy to and gatekeeper of his rock bottom. He smoothes the bills over his palm and says to them, “Mister Bailey sent me a telegram.” He doesn’t expect her understand. 

“Hmm. If he sent a telegram, he’s probably got a letter for you.”

Percival’s head snaps up.

“But the railroad is still under repair.” She pulls a dustcloth from her apron. “Might not reach here for a week.” She swipes it over the cash register. “Or two.”

“It’s a very important letter.”

“Oh, yes. I’m sure. Very sure. Mister Bailey only deals with important letters.” She clutches the cloth in her hand and extends her middle finger to run the nail around the metal of the raised number of the nine button. “Being a lawyer and all.”

Percival nods and puts the money into his pocket. He reaches for his sunhat. 

“My husband knew Mister Bailey well. We’d all go to dinner together. Grand it was.” She doesn’t smile, but her eyes appear to change in the light like she might be trying to. She puts the cloth back into her apron pocket and she clenches her hands together there before turning her back on Percival and walking away.

He puts his sunhat on and he steps back out into the street. Feeling lighter for having money in his pocket and yet burdened by it. Percival’s father was a teacher at the _Tishomingo Agricultural High School_. A well-respected man. A thrifty man. A man who would often decline dinner with Mister Bailey despite their long friendship. 

Percival pauses and looks over at the crossroads store. Constant is no longer at his lookout. Percival feels equally relieved and concerned by this fact also. In high school, Percival wasn’t tall enough to be on the basketball team no matter how much he longed for it. He liked gong to watch the games with his father though. Percival tries to judge Constant’s age by imaging him stood next to the other children at the church, police line-up. It’s a tough call. 

Despite the old woman’s words of advice, Percival checks in at the bank. The hound of hell doesn’t have his letter, but he does offer a useful, “They’re working on it, sir.”   
Percival ducks his head politely, but scoffs as he quickhops down the steps. The wrath of the omnipresent, confounding They. 

Percival returns to his room over the café. He’s hot. He runs a hand over the back of his neck. Out the window, a pretty young lady, all blonde curls kittenheels down the street. He sits on the bed, back against the headboard. Tries to settle to read an article from one of Constant’s gifted _Modern Screens_ about Ronald Colman. He tries to remember the plotline to _Raffles_ and doesn’t get too far. He’s hungry. 

Colman sure is handsome. Percival thumbs the corner of the magazine. He can’t for the life of him think what happens in _Raffles_. He remembers going to the pictures to see it. Colman, a bit of a spiv throughout and his friend, the die-hard limpet, Bunny. Bunny touching Raffles’s elbow, owing him his life. It had been a long, wet day felling trees and Percival had seen the flick hunched low in his seat, eyes half-lidded. Too tried to do anything, but too tired to sleep. Raffles in a white bowtie and thin moustache. Percival rubs his pointer and middle finger over his mouth at the image. 

He moves his hand over his cock slowly hardened in his borrowed slacks. He pushes the heel of his hand into his groin. He doesn’t want to spill in pants that are not his. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, tossing the magazine to the side as he goes. There’s a porcelain basin on a small wooden table in he corner of the room. A mirror over it for shaving. 

He avoids catching his reflection and steps out of Abe’s pants. He folds them in half and drapes them over the dresser. Standing before the basin, he reaches into his briefs and takes his length in hand. He closes his eyes. Bites the inside of his cheek. Manages to not tip his head back. He gives in to temptation to spread the slick emission at the top of his cock with the pad of his thumb. A sharp moan stutters from him and he strokes quick. 

Percival leans forward, his hips guiding him, awkwardly leant over the basin, his hand against the wall behind the table. His grip around his cock tightens, urging himself to speed up. Shameful excitement twinges in his tummy, he comes thankfully spilling into the basin. He pants quietly, wipes himself down with his handkerchief dragged from his neck. He fruitlessly swipes it around the basin before leaving it to sink down against the wall. 

He sits on his hands and draws his knees up close to his chest. His own body weight pressing down on his hands feels good, feels somewhat like atonement. His softening cock feels heavy in his lap and he shuffles to free his hands and tuck himself away. He sprawls on the floor feeling hotter than ever, but a chill at the base of his back and somewhere in his breastbone. He falls asleep. 

It is late afternoon when he wakes and he feels gritty for having slept on the floor. In the middle of the day. He groans and rocks his head side to side, a hardboard slat wobbling under the motion. He sits up and shuffles to the door. He opens it just a peek to call into the hall, “Hey.” His mouth is dry and gulps painfully. He closes his eyes and leans his forehead into the ridge of the door edge. “Hey kid, you about?”

There is no answer. The young lad from the bar is not free to fetch him water. He sighs and closes the door. He regretfully snags Abe’s pants from the dresser and gingerly tugs them on. He slowly makes his way into the café and finds a seat in a booth. The lad is leaning on the bar reading a paper and Percival doesn’t have the strength or the heart to take him away from this task. He stands carefully and enters the restroom to wash up.

The bar is empty so he is not fearful of overkeen listeners who might suspect a respectable man washing in the restroom of the café he is renting a room over. He takes his time filling the metal basin with cold water. As he hangs Abe’s pants up on the hook on the door, he slips his hand in the pocket to make sure the money is still there. 

He considers what best to do with it. A rich man would wait until Abe asked to hand over the money. Percival is not a rich man. He is man waiting. He is a man about to be driven into despair at the paranoia that money breeds. He splashes his face with water, droplets seeping into the edge of his thin undershirt. He’s going to give Abe the money he decides. It’s what his father would do, he thinks. Pay the debt. Then that’s one down, one to go. 

Out in the bar he finds a seat in a booth and sits down heavily. The man, whose face is just as red as it was that morning, brings over a beer for Percival. Up close, he realises he’s sorely sunburnt and around his ears it is beginning to peel. Poor kid. It’s too hot to chat and the barkeep returns to his paper after he’s promised Percival a pitcher of water to take back up with him. 

He takes his time drinking his pint and it’s nearly dark by the time he retires. He pours water into the porcelain basin and swirls his handkerchief. He strips down to his underwear, his skin tacky with the day and clambers into bed. He lies on his back and folds his hands over his chest. The pomade he wears in his hair has worn away now, but he can still smell it lingering around his pillow. It’s the same his father used before work every morning and a habit Percival picked up and kept even when his job consisted of heavy labour. 

\---

Percival wakes later than he did the previous morning and is ashamed that so few days away from daily grind have made him lazy. He’s ashamed too, to see that someone has entered his room and tidied for him. The basin is empty and the jug has fresh water. His shirt has been put on a wire hanger and hung on the handle of the dresser’s top drawer. The barkeep, possibly. He flushes at the thought of Abe having cleaned his room. 

He decides that he is not going to visit the bank today. A watched pot never boils, so he’s going to steer clear. He decides instead that he will seek Abe out and give him the twelve dollars. Then that’ll be settled. He decides too that he will avoid venturing too far from the café. He doesn’t want to spend money and he doesn’t want to run into Constant. 

Luck is not on Percival’s side. Chancing a look out the window as though to better determine how hot the day will be, he spies the spectre of Constant. Head bowed, fingers tinkering along the edge of his preacher’s hat while sat on the stoop of the crossroads store. Percival leans against the windowsill and frowns down at the boy and makes his mind up to set the child to rights. 

“Hey. Kid.”

Constant does not look up at Percival’s voice. The boy continues to look at his shoes even as Percival stands before him. Percival’s temper gets the better of him and he cups his hands around the back of Constant’s neck and pushes his thumbs into the boy’s jaw to get him to tilt his head up. His hat falls from his head at the motion and tumbles to the side, but the boy does not struggle. He and Percival stare at one another. 

Percival’s eyes narrow. “You’re not Constant.”

The boy’s hair is a touch longer than Constant’s. Flat bangs running across his forehead, matching his flat even teeth. He rubs a hand under his nose and Pecival’s attention is drawn to the flat tip. He’s all wooden board edges where Constant is needle points. 

“No sir.” The boy’s hand taps at the porch, trying to reach his hat without moving. Percival lets go of him and grabs his hat to hand to him. The boy holds it by the brim and stands up. He’s not wearing a pin.

“Twins.”

“Yessir.” The boy touches the space on his blazer where Constant wears his pin. He pulls his hat on, jutting his chin out, runs his pointer finger around a tight string close to his jaw and jostles the flat of the hat sorting it into position. He smiles awkwardly at Percival and timidly holds his hand out. “Credence, sir.”

“Percival Graves.”

“Yessir.”

“Well.” Percival’s not sure what to make of this discovery. He’s not even sure if it’s something he has to form an opinion on. The creature child, Constant doesn’t mean anything to him. Just a fox who thinks Percival has pigeon in his pockets. A thought crosses his mind. “You meant to be in school kid?”

“Oh. Not any more.” He itches behind his ears, middle fingers tucking under the string, nose wrinkling. “We was homeschooled.” He pulls from inside his blazer a thin stack of Second Salemers tracts. “Twenty-one now though.” He waves the tracts. “Doing the Lord’s work.” 

Twenty-one. Jeepers. Percival thought the kid couldn’t be much more than fourteen. All of Constant’s ringing attitude and flighty fidgeting has got him bamboozled. Carefully observing the still Credence, he can see clearly the rough stubble at his neck, his patient eyes. He puts his hands on his hips. Credence’s voice is definitely that of a young man. He feels silly now, no child could be as tall as the twins are. Basketball jealousy still manifesting itself. 

The boy holds a tract out to him, but Percival holds up his palm. “I’ve already got one.” He coughs. He looks out at the dusty road. Squints at the sun. Looks Credence up and down. He’s really too slim. “You wanna get something to drink?”

“Oh. No thank you, Mister Graves. I shouldn’t.”

Percival resists the urge to roll his eyes and simply leans around Credence to open the door of the crossroads store. A ginger cat slinks past them and Percival heads on inside. He’s tinkering beside a cool box, his peripheral vision keeping an eye on Credence loitering outside, doing the same nervous two-step as his brother. Without looking up from the box, Percival calls out to him, “Do you like Nehi?”

Credence’s voice warbles out to him, “Uh-huh. Yessir.”

He sighs and takes two chocolate _Nehis_ up the young lady at the counter. She grins at him. Her tight dark curls are pinned close to her head with thick mauve clips. He’s never seen anything that colour before in a lady’s hair. He thinks it matches the peach of her blouse quite well. She raises an eyebrow at him. “Have you met the other one?”

His nods his head down an angle, eyes widened. “Oh yes.” He reaches into his back pockets, looking for the coins he had left over from ice-cream. “Yes. Twins.” He smirks at her, winks and she laughs loudly. 

She pats the counter. “You can have these. But you’ve got to bring the bottles back.”

“No. I can’t let you do that.”

“Bring the bottles back and we’re even.” She leans on her hands to tip over the counter a little in order to see out the door. Credence has folded his tracts away and is biting at his fingernails. “A gift for black cat number two.”

“You’re kind.”

She shrugs. “He’s my favourite out of the pair.” She laughs again. “I joke.” She puckers her lips, eyes crinkled with amusement. She waves the back of her hands at him and Percival thanks her, bowing slightly, walking backwards out the door. 

“Here. Come on. Take it.”

Credence does and thumbs at the cap with little success. He goes to put the metal between his teeth, but Percival takes it from him. He uses a penny to open them both up. Credence slurps noisily at the pop. 

“It’s good,” he says when Percival cocks an eyebrow at him. 

They begin walking. Credence keeps the bottle close to his lips in both hands as though Percival might change his mind and take it away from him. Percival’s arms swing at his sides, the bottle precarious in his thumb and forefinger grip. 

“So. Who’s the oldest?”

Credence swallows his mouthful. “Constant.”

Percival ducks his head. “Of course.”

They meander the dust track in a companionable silence. Credence doesn’t ask where they’re going and if Percival’s truthful he hadn’t really thought about it. It’s nice to be moving, to not be waiting. “Do you always sit outside the crossroads store?”

Credence coughs and rolls the empty bottle between his hands. “Don’t tell Constant, will you Mister Graves?”

Percival doesn’t stop walking, keeps his gaze on the horizon. “How d’ya mean?”

They walk several feet, Credence’s cheeks growing red, before he answers. “I’m not meant to sit there.”

“Why’s that?”

“Thou shalt not covet.”

Percival hums in his throat. He senses Credence’s gaze turn from the side of his face and back to the bottle. 

“The cat’s called Lucy. She’s nice.” Credence sighs and rolls his head on his neck. “At Christmas, Misses Arnold winds the merry-go round up.” He places his hand across his chest and touches the lapel of his blazer, rubbing the corner between his fingers. He chews down on his bottom lip. 

Percival looks down at the toes of his boots, scuffing dust up into the dry air. He rolls the empty glass bottle along the side of his neck. He’s feeling antsy, not working. They’d let him have Christmas Eve off a few years back. He’d sprained his wrist. He could have worked through it, but something nagged at their foreman and he was sent home. He’d run Martha ragged asking if he could help in the kitchen. Washing pans and wooden spoons quicker than she could use them. 

“My cousin, Martha she’s got a-“ Percival approximates the size of a small box with his hands “-Chalkware Nativity scene. She saved for weeks. She walked into the Woolworth, all proud an’ tha’” He grins at Credence. 

Credence nods and takes in a gulp of air. “One year, a man swapped me a Nativity pamphlet for a Peanut Chew.” A giggle erupts from him and he quickly covers his mouth with his free hand. 

Percival laughs and pats Credence on the back and gently takes his wrist, revealing his still smiling mouth. It’s too hot to walk like that for long, Percival with his arm around Credence’s shoulders, Credence slightly stooped to let him. They share a quiet smile as Percival steps away. 

The railroad melts the light into a hazy spread to the left of them, no sign of a train all this time. The ground grows rugged under their feet, larger stones and tracked dirt that come from a place close to water. It leads them into a thicket that Percival is surprised to find he recognises. The parting of low grasses, the shadow of hardwood, hardlined trees. 

It’s somewhat cooler amongst the shades of green. A wooden hut emerges as they walk further into the wood. Percival beckons Credence to come stand next to him. He takes Credence’s _Nehi_ bottle and places the both of the on the edge of the porch, avoiding the deep gashes in the Cypress.

He puts his hands on his hips. Looks up at the roof. He drags his sunhat from his head and sits next to the bottles. He pats the space next to him. “Mind the edges.” Credence perches beside Percival. He brushes at a scattering leaves and cobwebs. 

They watch a treetop sway. A rustling bird settling down. It reminds Percival that he hasn’t eaten since breakfast. He looks at Credence. He imagines he hasn’t had anything since yesterday. He sighs. Credence looks at him, tucks his lower lip out the blow air up, rolls his eyes to his bangs. He snorts and grabs one of the bottles. 

He beaktaps his nails again the glass before, using the base to beat a gentle rhythm. “La La sol sol lasol fa sol.” His voice is breathy, almost a whisper, the sound of his mouth around the shape notes almost audible above his hymn. “High was thy throne ere heav'n what made, or earth Thy humble footstool laid.” Unlike Constant, he’s able to hold the melody solo. His tone crisp. He keeps his eyes on the glass. His eyelashes cast a freckleshadow across his cheekbones.

Credence looks up and stops, caught in the act. He flushes and rubs the back of his wrist under his nose. 

“You’re good.”

“It’s not meant to be good. It’s meant to-“ Credence stands up and treads carefully near a bramble bush. He pulls gently at a protruding leaf. He shrugs. “You know. Please God.”

“I know. But all the same.”

Percival has spotted a brother leaf and joins Credence to stroke its waxy surface. Just to feel it. It looks wet. “Soon. This’ll all be mine.” Percival spreads his arms across the bracken. “I’ll clear it all and we’ll grow something.” He frowns. “Not cotton.” He scuffs his boot through the dirt and mumbles, “No’ allowed any more isit.” Muttering to the ground. “No logging either. Not gonna work a triple C for the government on my dime.”

“The workers from the camps built the railroad. The government’s promised them farm money now though.” Credence shrugs. “That’s why it’s taking so long to repair.” 

Percival hums in response. He highly doubts the government has promised anyone any money. There is none. But he too has heard the rumours of the men and their cameras reporting back on the starving people and their starving land. He vaguely keeps lookout as Credence walks heel to toe a line just in front of the house’s steps. He wobbles as he comes to the end of his imaginary task and claps tightly at a tree. 

Percival strides over. He reaches for Credence’s palms. Looking for bark grazes. There are none. He looks up into the branches. “It’s a hawthorn tree. That’s luck ya know. Fae like ‘em. You’re not a black cat, you’re a little lucky charm.” 

Credence wrinkles his nose, but laughs all the same. The wood pigeon calls. Percival squeezes Credence’s wrists. He reaches with the tip of his middle finger to push at the brim of Credence’s hat. It slides back so that it sits high on his crown. He looks more like Constant this way. The string around his jaw creases the skin at his earlobes. 

Credence’s mouth is slightly parted. He watches Percival. Percival steps back, letting go of Credence. Credence holds up his hand a straight line cutting across his square-tip nose, cotton floss in the evening chill. “We should go home.”

Walking back, the air has thinned and the sun is behind them. Percival swats at a mozzie twilling near his temple. Credence claps his hands. Old wives’ tale. Percival waves his arm at Credence, the corner of his mouth quirked in mirth. 

The boy walks with his hands together in front of him. Every third step or so he lifts them to chest height as though they had bumped and been thrown by the movement of his thighs. The button of Credence’s blazer has been re-sewn so that it draws in fitting his waist, but lopsided. Percival hands would span his width he should think. 

He wanted to buy Credence dinner. An apple. As they reach the crossroads store, Percival puts his hands in his pockets. He can’t find the coins left over from ice-cream. The store is closed. Abe has a beer waiting for him. 

Credence walks backwards away from him. “See you.” He clears his throat. “Mister Graves.”

Percival lifts his hand. 

Supping his drink with the sunburnt lad, Percival thinks he’ll steer clear of the street tomorrow. He’s still got the bottles, but he’ll stay in his room. He won’t check in at the bank. On his way up to bed, he presses the twelve dollars into Abe’s hand. He closes his eyes as he does so and pats the back of Abe’s fist to keep the transaction silent. He bearsleeps late into the turn of the earth. 

\---

The day is dappled purple as he approaches the church. The _Rolling Stone_ egg truck rumbles past him. Manna from heaven. He regrets lying to himself when he spots Constant’s sat in the wagon. His long legs spill over the side. 

“Look,” Constant points at the departing relief workers’ truck. “Ma’s gonna make fried potatoes and eggs.” He stands and holds his hands in front of himself and steps from foot to foot. He’s contemplating asking Mister Graves to stay. Sure he wants to, but he’s starving. If Mister Graves stays, he doesn’t get supper. 

“That’ll be nice.” Percival entwines his fingers behind his back. He swings at the hips to look at the last mist of the truck before facing Constant again. “Does Credence like eggs?”

Constant stares at him codmouth. He shouldn’t know about the boy. Cabbage head should have stayed away. Mr Graves is his. His gift to Ma. Credence can’t take this away from him. Credence ruins everything. 

“He.” Constant wants to stamp his foot. He coughs. Touches his pin. Pulls the edges of his blazer to straighten it. Lifts his chin. “He does.” He turns on his heel and heads inside the church. Percival follows him. 

The kitchen door is open. Credence is stood next to Pastor Barebone. He’s not wearing his blazer and his sleeves are rolled up. He is slowly drying a plate with a teatowel. The pastor frowns at him and he hurriedly places it on the sideboard. 

“Ma. Mister Graves is here.” 

The pastor looks over her shoulder before her feet follow. She nods. Brushes her hands against her ribs. Credence drops the teatowel. He knocks his head into the cupboard door bending to pick it up again. The pastor and Constant silently observe his blindman limbs. Percival leans into the cramped space and lifts the precariously set plate from the counter that Credence’s rising head is about to tip to certain calamity. 

The pastor and Constant look on. Percival holds the plate in both hands. Shrugs his shoulders. Credence places a hand where the plate was to steady himself, before spotting it in Percival’s grip. “Oh.” He looks at the ground and neatly folds the teatowel. He pegs it on the rack over the sink before softly stepping into the church, his back crooked in deference. 

Percival wants to follow him. He doesn’t. He is son returned home without wife or fortune. Credence is the naughty puppy he left in mother’s care all these years. He hands Constant the plate. “Thank you.” He clears his throat. “Thank you for the magazines. I haven’t had much time to spend on reading.”

The pastor takes out a paring knife. Constant reaches for a colander on the dining board and gathers potatoes into it. He says to Percival over the sound of the tap, “I like the animal pictures.” He glances at his ma. “Like Noah’s arc.”

Percival, lets his eyes fall shut, tips his head back on the tall cabinet he’s leaning on, his smile trickling towards his ears. He opens them a peek. The pastor’s holding a wooden spoon out to him. Her mouth doesn’t move, but her eyebrows are lifted just a fraction against her will. Over her head Constant risks, “I can trace them real good.”

Percival takes the wooden spoon, swaps places with the pastor and begins cracking eggs into a bowl. He nudges Constant with his shoulder. The pastor calls out the back door of the kitchen for the girls to come in. The sisters stream in, a flurry of napkins and a large white table cloth straight from the clothes lines. 

A woman about Percival’s age rearranges the baby on her hip. She nudges Constant closer to Percival before he gets the hint and moves away from the cutlery drawer. She gathers several in one hand and palms them off to the tallest girl. She pats her on the back and ushers the three of them into the church. 

She stands close to Percival and waist for him to put down the eggs. She pinches the edge of her long skirt and holds it at an angle, her foot scraping the wood floor as it tucks behind her ankle. Curtseying for him. The babe tangling his fist in her hair as she bends at the waist. Percival blushes. He looks away. She stands smiling at him. “Good evening to you, Mister Graves.”

He bobs his head awkwardly, his eyes cannot set on her and he focuses on the girls arranging the alter into dinner table. Percival takes the woman’s free hand. The left. He shakes it. Firmly. She should shake his hand. “Jessica, put the candles away.”

“No. They’re pretty.” 

Abruptly, he takes the baby from her. The baby giggles and the woman gasps. He takes her right hand in his and shakes it hard. He looks her in the eyes and shakes her hand. “Good evening.”

“Chastity. My name’s Chastity.” Her fingertips delicately drift in front of her mouth that has gone serious at the corners. 

Percival nods at her. The baby squeals and thumbs a fist on Percival’s chest. 

“The munchkin is Joy.”

“He’s a boy?”

“Hmhmm.” Chastity nods. “Joy-In-Sorrow.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

She cups her elbow with her hand. “The Lord has plans for us all.” She throws her hands up in the air. “Gosh, let’s sit.” Her teeth are uneven and her tongue protrudes between the space her top and bottom rows accommodate for it. 

The baby is surprisingly docile. He doesn’t mind Percival folding him into his lap as they take seats at the table. Chastity takes the candlesticks and tucks them away in the closet that Constant had fetched the magazines from before joining him. The girl with the birthmark frowns at her back. Percival huffs a small laugh, directing it at Joy who grins a gummy grin. 

“You got any babies, sir?”

“Modesty.” The eldest one hisses.

Constant approaches with a bowl of thinly sliced, fried potatoes. He raises an eyebrow. “Angeline.” He sets it in the centre of the table. It’s only half full. “Eggs are coming.” 

“No. I do not have any children.” He feels guilt at this admission. He has failed mother. No wife, no children. Nothing to be proud of. He should have stayed away. 

“Eh, they ain’t so great.” Modesty cackles and pinches Jessica’s bicep below the thin cotton of her blouse. Jessica scowls and rubs at the beginning of a red mark. 

Percival rolls his lips together, not wanting to laugh at the girl’s poorly controlled boisterousness. He jostles Joy on his knee. Credence creeps through the door at the edge of the chancel. The gathering at the table say nothing as he takes his place beside Constant. Constant’s eyes are hard and his mouth venom thin. “You wash up?”

“Yes.” Credence draws his shoulders in tight, hugs his wrists between his knees. 

Chastity takes the baby from Percival. He leans his elbows on the table without thinking. He catches Angeline’s half-open mouth and sits back. Drags his chair close to the table and places his hands on his thighs. Angeline’s cheeks go pink and she moves away from the table with a flourish and into the kitchen. 

Percival watches Credence itch at his square-tip nose. Crosses his arms around his tummy. Flickers a smile at Joy when the baby flexes his fingers. Passes Chastity a fork that had doubled up in the table laying. Percival watches Constant who’s eyes never leave Credence. 

“Tell me about Shape-Note singing.”

Jessica tilts her head to the side. “Angeline has the best voice.”

“It’s not about being the best.” Constant’s voice is razor thin, but unlike when he speaks to Credence, has been wrapped in a handkerchief. 

“I know that my Redeemer lives, Glory, Hallelujah!” Jessica begins to sign out of pitch, but Chastity join in to help. “What comfort this sweet sentence gives,  
Glory, Hallelujah!”

They finish after the first round of shapes, suddenly feeling self-conscious, with Constant and Credence staying silent. Joy fusses his hands.

“For singing glory to God,” Credence whispers. Constant doesn’t look at Credence, but light as gossamer, places his palm on Credence’s forearm.

Silly cabbage head. Always with the out of time soppy niceness. He’s mouse in the corn, eating instead of gathering and then. Then, will stumble home with apple. He always cries over his bad reading and then if Jessica asks about a Bible verse, he’ll quickly hush up and show her. He’s always afraid of ma and then when she’s angry, closes his arms around her waist. Burrows his head in her breast. She don’t let anyone else do that. 

Angeline returns with a bowl of scrambled eggs and the pastor behind her. Angeline places the bowl down and cheeky-faced at Chastity sings, “Shout on, pray on, we’re gaining ground, Glory Hallelujah!” 

All the Barebone children join in with, “The dead’s alive, and the lost is found, Glory Hallelujah!” 

Until Pastor Barebone clenches her hands tight in prayer and they copy her. “O Father, for all thy mercies. Give us grateful hearts. We thank you for the blessings of the day that is past, and humbly ask for your protection through the coming night. Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit: as it was in the beginning, is now, and will be for ever. Amen.” 

The congregation begins to eat. Constant flicks his knife against the edge of his plate. Ma is watching him and Credence. He elbows Credence in the ribs and Credence who hadn’t picked his cutlery up does so in pretence. Constant’s tummy goes to whine, but he speaks over it, “Mister Graves, are you gonna set-up around town?”

Percival lowers his fork. Pastor Barebone’s faithfierce eyes bore into his. “I’m a farm man.” The storytale guilt crescendos painfully at the centre of his forehead. He is no oil man. He has nothing. He can do nothing to help this family. “I have land here. Mister Bailey has arranged it for me.” He waves the fork. “My father arranged it with Mister Bailey.”

He surveys Constant’s reaction carefully. Constant doesn’t move, but Credence watches his twin. Percival decides that Constant needs to here the truth. “There’s no farming in Tishomingo any more. No logging either.” He puts his hands on the table. “There’s no money and everyone is dead.” 

He rises stiffly from the table. Constant thumbs at his pin. Percival places his knife and fork on his plate. “Thank you. Thank you,” he mutters as he does so. He flicks his head in the direction of Pastor Barebone and steps backwards twice before fleeing. 

\---

It’s early morning and the sun is beginning to heat. No compassion. Day after day she toils like this. Percival sits on the steps of the bank. He was up early. He has made plans. This land will not kill him. 

The hound of hell walks briskly passed him. Percival cannot avoid meeting his eyes. He knows too now. No rich man waits for a bank teller to predict the future. Percival dares not follow him. He rubs his hands together. Knocks his knees slowly from one side to the other. 

He puts his head in his hands. He doesn’t know how long he stays like that. His mind blank. His neck aching. The points of a pair of black boots appear in his vision. Witches footprint on the snow marble. He looks up into the pale face of Credence. 

“Hello.”

He squints at the boy. His eyes drift the empty space at Credence’s lapel. “Hello.”

“Are you going to the bank?”

Percival stands up. “Yes.”

Credence nods and holds his hand behind his back. “I’ll wait for you, Mister Graves.”

Percival stares, bemused. Checks the sun. She and Credence agree that he should probably get on with it. He walks into the bank, trying to square his shoulders. At the counter he is met by the bank teller. Percival takes in the gentleman’s small eyes. His glasses aren’t helping him. He stands at an angle too. His suit jacket sloping longer on one side. Percival reconsiders his hound of hell position. 

“Ah, Mister Graves. Good news. Good news I have heard.” His small hands come to rest on the oak of the desk. Birds in a nest. “The railroad has been repaired.” He purses his lips in triumph and leans forward. “Your letter will be with us. Shortly.” He smiles. Percival loves and loathes him for his sincerity. 

Percival, with his sunhat in his hands, nods courteously. “That is good news.” He speaks quietly. “Thank you. I-Thank you.”

“I’ll see you again, Mister Graves. Keep an ear to the crossroads store. They’ll hear news of post quicker than I will.”

“Yes sir.” 

He walks away in a daze until Credence meets him. He puts his hat back on. Credence is looking at him gently. Waiting for word. He tugs on Credence’s sleeve. “I knew you were good luck.” Credence’s mouth wavers uncertainly into smile. Percival’s brow furrows at him as if trying to work out the magic of the boy. “You’re a lucky charm.”

Percival takes him by the back of his neck. Wants to get a good look at his eyes. The whites are somewhat bloodshot, but the dark of his irises is welldeep. Truth drowned deep. Credence lets him take his sup. Waits for him to step away. Percival puts his hands on his hips. Credence brushes at the front of his blazer. 

Percival breathes in a great lungful of hot late morning air. Credence watches him, unsure still. “I’m gonna help Miss Picquery at the crossroads store.” He swings his arm in that direction. “She’s gotta stack the crates of bottles for the soda people to collect.”

Percival links their elbows together. It feels too intimate, but he feels he needs childish comfort now. He needs something to cling to. This apprenticeship friendship, this purpose Credence has provided. This is good. This feels closer to right. 

“Did ya hear?” Miss Picquery is out on the porch when they arrive. She’s in a mint green dress and matching alice band. 

“Hear what?” Credence says. 

She folds her arms and smirks at Percival. At his open face. “They mended the railroad.”

“Yes miss.” Percival nods. 

Credence laughs. “Lucky!” He coughs and reaches for a crate. “God provides.”

Miss Picquery leans an elbow on a stack of wooden crates and pitterpatters her forefinger and middle finger on two glass bottles. She raises an eyebrow at Percival. “These two here. They’re yours.” She looks over her shoulder at Credence. “A whole day he took to bring them back. A day.” She smirks at Percival.

He exhales a laugh from the side of his mouth. “Sorry.” He reaches for the topmost crate. 

“Jus’ don’t let it happen again.”

After dinner, Percival is drinking a second beer at the generosity of Abe. He’s got a soft look on his face. Remembering Credence clumsy fingered dropping a crate on the truck driver’s foot and then making the man laugh shyly asking if he could pray for him. He’s jolted from his pale cotton wool thought as Constant slides into the booth opposite him. The boy leans his elbows on the table and glares at Percival. 

“Should you be here?”

The boy lifts his point nose into the air and sits back slightly. “No. Abe doesn’t like me.”

Percival’s mouth twists into an amused sneer.

“Don’t laugh at me.” Constant crosses his arms. “Why’d ya let Credence hang around you all day, huh?”

“He let me hang around him.” Percival lifts a lazy hand into the air at the barkeep. He’s not sure what the he’ll bring over for Constant. Something to keep him quiet, Percival hopes. 

“That’s not-“ Constant’s snaketongue pauses as the kid sets a glass of lemonade down before him. His eyes widen at the boy before narrowing suspiciously. 

The boy shrugs. “Ligh’en up, Constant.” He walks away and Percival laughs loudly at the look on Constant’s face. 

Constant is pink and his face is wrinkled like a bulldog puppy trying to look formidable. He takes a forcible too large gulp of lemonade and sputters as the sugar and tang hit the back of his throat. Percival snickers and hands him a paper napkin. “Jus’ be quiet and enjoy your drink.”

For a while Constant does. His eyes flicker from side to side like he still thinks someone might take it from him. “I’m better company that Credence.”

“Sure you are.”

Mister Graves is a fraud and Constant hates him. He wants the magazines back. He wants his slice of cake and portion of eggs. His back hurts. Ma told him to listen to God, not false prophets. He feels stupid for being tricked by the devil. He looks down at his hands around the base of the glass. “When Credence and me were little. Like two. I dunno.” He shrugs. “A man tried to steal him away.”

Percival takes a sip of beer. “Oh yeah?”

Constant doesn’t look at him. He knows Percival thinks he’s lying. “We were born in Jackson and we were in a big ol’ pram. We’d been left outside The Majestic and we were in lace and tha’. Some man didn’t think our ma needed two of us and snatched Credence.”

“Your ma comes from Jackson?”

Constant shakes his head. “No sir. We’re adopted. We made the news. Someone gave ma a paper cutting when she took us in. The only interesting thing about us. Something to convince her to take on two more.”

“How’d Credence get back?”

“Oh, the way all kids get back. Nosy neighbours.” He bites his bottom lip. “A newly wed couple with no money suddenly have a baby in lace. A gift from God maybe-“ he scrunches his nose “-but not really.”

Constant leans his cheek on his hand and looks at Percival through half-lidded eyes. “I wish they’d kept him.”

“Huh.” Percival rubs his left thigh. He looks at Constant’s dewy eyelashes. “He scare you?”

“No.” Constant dips a finger into his lemonade and sucks it. 

“You jealous of him?”

Constant huffs a sardonic laugh that doesn’t match what Percival knows of him. “No. We’re twins.”

Percival taps the table and leans conspiratorially down to Constant. “I’m sweating in here.” He might be a little tipsy. He wanders outside and perches on the sidewalk across from the café. Constant sits next to him. 

“Kid, come on. Leave me be now. It’s late. I’m hot.”

Constant lunges at him, sloppy kiss plated on the corner of his mouth.

“Jeepers, kid what are ya doing?” He holds his forearm between the two of them.

“I’m not dumb. I see you. You look at Credence like that.” Constant grabs him by the scruff of his neck. Twists awkwardly so that Percival has to look at him. “I wanted to keep you. You’ve gotta stay. God told me you were going to stay.” Constant rattles his head.

Percival pulls Constant’s hands away from him and holds them together stern, the skin striping yellow. “He’s testing ya, boy.” 

Constant is panting, heaving great gulps of air, tears eeping from the corners of his eyes. His nose runs.

“Okay. Come on.” Percival drags Constant close by the shoulders. “Come on.”

\---

Percival takes an apple from Abe at dawn and leans his head in at the crossroads store. Miss Picquery does not yet have an update on the post, but gives her word she will get news to him as soon as she does. He’s in a good mood and the walk out to the cabin seems much shorter today. 

He finds he is not at all surprised to spot Credence sat on his porch. Child will-o'-wisp whisper poking the very tip of his pinky at the leg of a spider. He’s not wearing his hat. 

“Hello.” At his voice, Credence looks up and smiles. “Suppose you better come in.”

Percival walks past Credence to open the door. It’s mostly untouched. There’s nothing to steal. There’s a layer of dust over every surface. The bed at the centre of the room still wrapped in the pretty floral cover his grandmother chose and the white crochet blanket he recognises from a number of Christenings. 

He brushes his hand over the kitchen table not more than a few feet from the bed. Lifts up the empty vase on the table and puts it back down. Credence comes to stand next to him. “It’s nice here.”

Percival shrugs. “No. No, it’s not. It’s poor.”

“We’re all poor.”

Percival looks at Credence. At his sharp jaw line, the translucent skin of curl of his ear. He leans his forehead against Credence’s bicep. “I want to touch you, Credence.” He whispers. Runs his nose against Credence’s jaw, his cheekbone. Tucks his ring finger into Credence’s collar to pull it away and kiss at his neck. “Will you let me?” He kisses again. ”You’ll let me?” 

Credence’s chin jerks in a solitary nod. His mouth is slightly parted. Percival kisses his bottom lip. Kisses his philtrum. Credence leans back before placing his palms on Percival’s stomach. Presses his mouth fully against Percival’s. 

His hands slide up to hold onto Percival’s neck. Percival tilts his head to deepen the kiss. Presses his tongue inside Credence’s mouth. Credence startles back, but Percival follows. Pecks at his cheek in reassurance. Undoes the button at Credence’s waist. Pets his fingertips over Credence’s length, smoothing at the soft cotton. Credence gasps into his mouth and shivers. 

Percival smiles. “Here.” He pushes at Credence’s thighs, get him sit on the end of the bed. Credence shuffles over as Percival kneels up next to him. The cover is dusty and Percival brushes at it. He strokes Credence’s cheek and lays back. Credence follows him, rolling onto his tummy. His forearms pressing into the soft layers of sheets and duvet to look down at Percival. 

Percival brushes at Credence’s bangs. Taps him on the nose. Kisses him. He rolls on top of Credence and Credence breathes a comforted sigh, opens his knees for Percival. Percival unbuttons his own pants, places his arms either side of Credence’s head, mouths never parting. His hips slide against Credence’s and the boy mewls. 

Credence runs his fingers through Percival’s hair and his straight teeth nip at Percival’s top lip. Percival smirk and retaliates in kind. Credence rolls his hips to meet Percival’s. There’s no naked flesh, no skin. Just rest for the weary and burdened. He places his hands at the base of Percival’s back, pulling him closer. Percival moans. 

He breathes a hot exhale into the space between Credence’s neck and his shoulder. Takes his pleasure harder and faster against the boy. Cups his hand around Credence’s ribs. Credence turns his head to brush their cheeks together. Closes his eyes tightly and comes as Percival touches the tip of his tongue against his earlobe. Percival follows kisses the hot skin of Credence’s temple.

Laying on their backs, hair tangling on the thin pillow, sweat cooling on their collar bones, the sound of Sacred Harp singing drifts over them. “Oh, I’m missing the singing,” Credence breathes. Saliva clicks against Credence’s lips as he softly joins in. “Lo, onward I move, to see Christ above. None knowing how wondrous my journey will prove.”

The bed is old and short and their boots dangle over the end. Percival strokes his palm over Credence’s hand. Brings it up to kiss his knuckles. He sits up and heaves Credence with him. Credence falls artlessly onto his shoulder. Percival presses his cheek against the top of Credence’s head. He smells like carbolic soap. 

Later, Constant is waiting from him at the bottom of the path that leads up to the church. “Why weren’t you here?”

“I was just.” He gestures behind him. “Walking.”

Constant puts his hands on Credence’s shoulders. “Ya know I don’t like it when you do that.” 

Credence puts his hands on Constant’s shoulders. Mirror Image. “I know.”

Constant sits down heavily as though the length of the day is too much for him to bear suddenly. He crosses his legs and his nails go to picking at his laces. Credence folds himself down beside him.

“Ma’ll be mad ya know.”

Credence looks up at the church. The door is closed. “I know.”

Constant doesn’t say anything for a long while. “Why ya gotta do these things, huh?” He looks at Credence through eyes that slit the wrath of Old Testament. “Why can’t ya be good?” 

\---

Behind the house, amongst the thicket is Percvial’s land. It’s hardground that will take a lot of work to farm again. Brambles and deep tree roots have staked their claim. There’s a small creek that has suffered malnourishment in the heat of the summer. It’s banks grown deep and dusty. No crayfish lurking.

He’s trying to keep busy. Trying to be a good man. To make plans. To avoid waiting. He’s taken his boots and socks off, rolled up the cuffs of Abe’s trousers and sunk his feet into the shallow water. The sand feels good against his toes. Scratches at the rough skin there. He steps and turns, twisting his ankles, burrowing his feet, arms akimbo. He leans back on his heels to release his feet from the sand suction. 

His father used to take them river fishing. Percival was never much interested. Daddy, who was tall and willowy where he children were short and wide in the shoulders. He wore his hair slicked back, but wasn’t precious about it. It the strands started to come loose after lunch, he’d never have a comb in his pocket to neaten it. He never took his pomade out of the bathroom dresser. 

Percival remembers he had a thick moustache that brushed the corners of his mouth. It was prominent on his thin face and his mother used to tut at it, but giggling girlishly when he rubbed his face against hers. He shaved it away once the highschool was disbanded and abandoned him. 

He kicks at the water. Hovers the sole of his foot above the surface, feels the tickle of teacup waves under it. Pushes it down forcefully to feel Archimedes’s law at his control. He’d splash around in the water for a while, seeking attention, then go quiet at daddy’s serious face. He would sit on the bank, dangling his feet and watch as his father, slim ash tree, would reel and throw his line, once, twice, three times. Would step from foot to foot to stand even and still. 

More often that not, there was nothing to catch. Daddy was a good math teacher and a confident basketball coach, but not much of a fisherman. Sometimes though, there was catfish. That was good. Then mummy would fry it up, crunchy with crackling batter. Lard coating the roof of his mouth in succulent provision. They’d sit outside and it would still be hot and the fish was hot, but the evening balmy. Him, His brother, their cousins, round as little piglets, silly sleepiness snuck across their faces. 

Sitting on the bank now, Percival cups his hands between his thighs, gathering water. He splashes it over one shoulder then the other. He rubs both his damp hands around his neck. Deer at the watering hole, the shadow between his eyelashes spots the boy. Folklore panther apparition. 

Percival forgot to bring his hat. He’s feeling a little sun drunk. The back of his neck stings and his eyelids lazy. “Hey,” softly, softly. Beckons with the crook of his outstretched hand. 

The boy steps close to the edge of the river. Toes at a cluster of pebbles. Percival watches his feet. His dusty heels, the shimmer of dried earth misted over his boot-clad ankles and the too-high cuffs of his pants. Father would have laughed if Percival ever outgrew his pants. He never did. Always the average height for his age, for that year’s clothes. 

His cheeks feel warm. His head heavy with a sharp ache in his temples. He follows the thread of the boy’s long legs. The sun milk dapples his vision, the boy’s suit looks cocoa brown in the light. Sweet as anything. Innocent yet. Beguiled Percival stood at his father’s bedside while he coughed and coughed. His daddy dying in the mud of the river. A shroud of rough brown blankets, his hands clammy cold. Percival feeling like he was being dragged down with him. His throat constricting, the weight of family sadness on his chest.

The boy is a Fauve bronze brushstroke against the generous green of the forest behind him. Percival holds his hands out to him, coaxing him. Percival expects him to grin shyly and begin to take his boots off. But he doesn’t. He slips. His fingers spread wide into the soil, awkwardly sprawling behind him as he falls on the small of his back rushing into the water.

He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t cry out. Percival reaches forward, eye darting, his legs heavy in the water. Stones chase the boy in jest, the water ripples in mocking. But the boy’s torso tumbles right-angled to his hips, his head ricocheting. Rock crack. His chin judders, teeth slicing into his bottom lip. Blood weeps into the water and Percival grasps him by the shoulders, gathers him into his arms. 

He runs. Runs further. Lactic acid hardboard-staring across his collarbones like a spirit level. The boy is heavy in his arms. He’s struggling now. Clambering up the wooden steps of the house. The toe of his boot catches and he stumbles, clinging the boy tight against his chest he maintains a hold on gravity through sheer will power.

Manoeuvring the boy’s knees, so his hand can reach for the doorknob, he fumbles. The boy’s leg slips and his foot hits the ground with a dull thud. Percival pushes the door open with his shoulder and hauls the boy in, his leg awkwardly trailing at an inhumane angle as Percival lays him on the low bench in the window. 

Panting, Percival puts his hands on his hips. He runs a panicked hand through his hair. Looks to the open door and lunges forward to close it with the tips of fingers outstretched. It slams closed and he rights himself before the boy, tucks his undershirt into his jeans. Looks down at him. His small chest is still. The white of his eyes peeks split out from dark lashes, clumped wetly together. 

He sits heavily on the bed. The net curtain at the window flutters. 

\---

“Abe? I’ve got a letter for Mister Graves.”


End file.
